


Homecoming

by glacis



Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Krycek returns from Russia to settle some old business, and Mulder is his unexpected trump card - or that was the plan, anyway. previously published in eXposure, IIBNF Press, 1997</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

_Homecoming_

The pain of the phantom limb was like white noise for him now, underlying and at times blanketing out almost everything. Some mornings he would wake up and catch himself reaching over to massage out the ache of muscles and bone that were only a memory. Most mornings, he woke himself screaming over how they had been lost.

He wasn't of any use to them, not any longer, and so he was cut loose. Nothing in the budget to pay the able bodied, much less a washed up, used up, empty shell with dead eyes. A behind-the -scenes pat on the head, a ridiculous excuse for a pension, and a place on a list somewhere among the rest of the cast-offs for third rate work on a ruined stump. For this, he served his country. Da. Right.

He had to get the hell out of here. Russia was too fucking cold, there were too many unfamiliar faces with hungry eyes in them here. And he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life with this pathetic excuse for a prosthesis or a pinned up, rolled up, empty sleeve to remind him of his failures.

Aleksandr Semyonovich Krycek carefully locked his front door, one handed, and walked out into the snowy street.

Time to call in the last of the markers. Time to leave home ... and go home.

 

The Congressional hearings made just as much difference as he had expected them to make.

None.

Maybe Krycek was right. They were just too powerful to reach using the regular channels of law enforcement and the justice system. Wrenching his mind away from the many failures of "justice" in the last several years, Special Agent Fox Mulder stopped playing with his engraved name plate and cracked it down on the desk, hard.

Nobody noticed.

There was no one there to notice. His partner was off cutting up what appeared to be the petrified remains of a very, very old woman down in the morgue. He'd graciously declined to view the proceedings, manfully ignoring her smirk at the instinctive grimace he hadn't - quite - been able to hide. It wasn't an X File, anyway, so it wasn't something he needed to see. Just another weird case that VCS couldn't handle on their own. Skinner would probably be pissed that he hadn't volunteered any help, but he couldn't find the energy to care. There was nothing pressing on his plate, at the moment, and he had too many things on his mind to worry about one piddling case with absolutely no paranormal aspects to it.

Tunguska had taken more out of him than he'd thought.

Idly tracing the edges of the avalanche of files on his desk with the tip of his finger, he watched with absolutely no interest as three of them lost the fight to gravity and spilled their contents amongst the mess on his desk. Case notes, carefully written, logically argued, brilliantly analyzed ... and they would never see the light of day. File photos, each painstakingly logged, annotated, sorted ... a waste of time and energy. Nobody'd ever believe him, anyway. Even Scully. Well, maybe Scully. In a weak moment. After exhausting every scientific argument she could come up with and a few she probably made up, although he'd never get her to admit it.

God, he was tired. And he was afraid. For the first time since he'd been injected, stripped, tied to a table with chicken wire and had that black whatever-the-hell it was splattered all over his face, he was able to admit it. He was scared to death. All his big talk about being willing to do anything, go anywhere, face anyone to get to the truth, and where had it led him? To hell, in the guise of a Russian slave labor experimentation camp, sold out by the man he'd been stupid enough to trust even a little bit for reasons he refused to examine, trussed to a table and force-fed alien contaminants. And he was scared shitless.

He didn't know what to do, or who to turn to. He couldn't tell Scully. She had her own nightmares to deal with, she didn't deserve this. Quite honestly, he wasn't sure he had the guts to tell her. He didn't know what he'd do if she told him he'd asked for it, as he deserved to hear her say. It was the truth, after all, and Scully didn't shy from the truth. Until recently, he hadn't either. Wasn't sure he still had the nerve. Or the fire, for what good would it do? The evidence would only be taken, shredded, slaughtered in a cell before it could ever see the light, leaving nothing behind but the emptiness and the fear. Was this what she had felt, losing those memories, during the time she was abducted? Was this the gut-level fear she'd had to fight? All the while he had been urging her to remember, immersing her in cases with similar aspects to them, pushing at her to remember, relive. God, he could be an insensitive bastard at times.

"Yeah, but we love you anyway."

He snapped his head up at the soft, warmly humorous words. "Hey," he greeted his partner, "didn't hear you come in."

Bright blue eyes stared at him critically, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the still raw scrapes on his face, the evidence of fatigue in the deep lines alongside his mouth. "Uhm-hm," she agreed absently, "you were too busy talking to yourself. Anything you want to tell me, Mulder?" The teasing tone didn't hide the seriousness of the query. She was worried about him. He hadn't been quite right since he'd escaped from Russia, and he'd clammed up. Not that he was loquacious about himself under the best of circumstances, but in the last month since Tunguska he'd nearly stopped talking completely. Diverted, she wondered when she had begun thinking in Mulder's terms, classing events as pre-Tunguska and post-Tunguska. He'd done it unconsciously, and she'd picked up on it. More partner-radar, she thought wryly. Too bad it didn't work for other things -- like explaining why he was acting like some sort of ghost lately. His answer interrupted her reverie, and she pulled herself back to the present.

"You mean it?" He looked half hopeful, half joking. She didn't have a clue what he was talking about. So much for telepathy, she snorted silently.

"Mean what?" She moved efficiently to her desk, hanging her coat over the back of the chair and picking up the latest batch of toxicology reports from the lab. His disgusted sigh brought her attention back to him.

"That you love me." She stared at him as if he'd grown another head for a long moment, then abruptly grinned.

"Of course I love you, Mulder. Like a particularly irritating cocker spaniel, but it's sincere affection."

He couldn't hold the affronted look for very long, responding to her seldom-seen grin with one of his own. It faded quickly, but she didn't notice, entrenched in the tox reports again. Something about the venom levels in the last test didn't match her expectations, under the circumstances of the victim's--

"Oh, shit." The vehement curse yanked her attention back to her partner again, and she glanced over at him. He was staring at his computer screen with a strange mixture of revulsion and shock, mixed with something else she couldn't identify. It looked almost like anticipation, but that didn't fit the rest of his reaction.

"What is it, Mulder?" She was out of her chair and looking over his shoulder before he could clear the screen. She noticed the abortive movement he made to hit the "next" button, but didn't question him on it. She was too busy staring at the words on the monitor.

TO: Spooky

FROM: The Frog

SUBJ: Incoming

Thought you might like to know an old friend is coming to visit. Looks like a long stay. Seems the Rat got his paw lopped off and doesn't like the replacement parts in the old country. Plus he's got a hard-on for an ashtray and he's making like an extinguisher.    

Watch your back, Spookster.      




It wasn't signed, and the email addresses were masked, but Scully recognized the name Frohicke had used in email correspondence with Mulder in the past. She'd always found it appropriate, given the little man's protuberant eyes and rounded face. But the Rat? A lopped paw? What on earth was he talking about? "Mulder?" He continued to stare at the message, and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Who's the Rat? What is he talking about?"

"Krycek," he whispered, and her hand clenched instinctively before she forced herself to relax it.

"And the ... paw?" There was more he wasn't telling her. Maybe this would be the opening he could use.

"When we -- I escaped from the prison camp, I took him with me. There were ... You remember the peasants I told you about, the ones who smuggled me from St. Petersburg across the Gulf to Helsinki? Well, they had a way to ... the only way they were able to stop ... they protected their menfolk from ..." his voice trailed off, and she found herself running her hand in small, comforting circles over his shoulder. He gulped in a breath, then let it all out in a rush. "They kept the local men safe by chopping off their left arms because that's what the doctors at the camp used to measured the effects of the experiments." A shudder went through him as some unpleasant memories surfaced, and she pressed at his shoulder a little harder, trying to reassure him. "Looks like Krycek didn't get lucky like I did."

She drew a deep breath to settle her stomach, the thought of an amputation under such brutal conditions causing unwelcome sympathy even for an enemy, then focused her thoughts on the rest of the message. "And the ashtray? Is he saying what I think he's saying?"

Mulder settled deeper into his chair, slowly closing his eyes as he began to sort through the possible ramifications of this new development. "He's going after the Cancerman, Scully."

"Why?" Her confusion was evident in her voice. "I thought they were on the same side?" She moved around him and settled herself on the edge of the desk. He swiveled to face her, and cleared his throat.

"Not any more." At her cocked brow, he elaborated. "I did a bit of checking. Seems Cancerman double-crossed him. That's how he got the DAT tape. Cancerman tried to kill him, and he escaped."

"Then the ... silo." She couldn't quite bring herself to say 'oil- alien' even if that did seem to be the only explanation that fit the evidence.

"Right." He stared at her, knowing what she wasn't saying, surprising her by not pursuing it. "He was ... persuaded to give the tape to Cancerman. Then he got out, somehow, and started feeding me the information on the bombs, trying to enlist me to help him take out Cancerman. I think he's back to that plan, Scully. He lied to me-" he ignored her muttered "So, what else is new?" and continued, "about his parents, and there's more to this whole mess than he told me. This could be our chance."

"To do what, exactly?" Her voice, her posture, her stance from her shoes to the bristling red hair told him exactly what she thought of any contact with Krycek. Aside from a swift ride to the nearest federal penitentiary -- or a bullet between the eyes.

"To use him. Like he used us." He leaned back, and pinned her with the full force of his stare. "He has information, and he's carrying a grudge. He has nothing to lose, because he has lost it all. We propose a deal : our help for his information. He has already said the only thing these men fear is exposure. We offer him that, in exchange for the truth." He stared earnestly into her unconvinced face. "It's worth a try, Scully."

"And how do you propose we set this up, Mulder?" She was willing to go along, to a point. She wasn't willing to decide, just yet, what that point might be.

"Easy," he grinned, practically oozing innocent intent. "I set up a meet with Cancerman."

She stared at him for a full minute. He held the grin. Eventually, she shook her head. "Well, if that doesn't draw the rat from the woodwork, I don't know what will."

 

Moscow to Minsk. Minsk to Olsztn. Then through the Polish countryside from Starogard to Szczecinek to Koszalin to a little stretch of beach on the Baltic Sea just outside Kotobrzeg. Across the sea to Denmark, on to Scotland and over to New York. It'd been a hell of a long trip, and some place along the way, in the cramped belly of a trawler, in the back of a farm cart, on the long flight over the Atlantic, Aleksandr Semyonovich died. On a Greyhound bus, somewhere between Philadelphia and 1005 First Street Northeast, Washington, DC, Krycek was born. He didn't expect a long life, but he knew it would be a satisfying one. It always was when you only had one goal, and it was a clear and simple goal at that. Kill the bastard who had put this train wreck into motion. For an aching moment he wished for a might-have-been, hazel eyes meeting his with warmth instead of hatred, a soft voice speaking in welcome, not harsh with disgust. Large hands reaching out to him with gentleness, instead of slamming into him, fists reinforcing the distance and pain between them. He shook his head. Wishes were not for dead men, or those on borrowed time. Wishes wouldn't turn back time, or change the truth, or heal festering wounds. He stared at the bustling, dirty streets, overhung with smog and diesel fumes, and shouldered his duffel bag, heading for the seedier part of town he had learned so well when he had lived in the capitol before.

It didn't take long to find a hole to hide in. It took even less time, thanks to the efforts of the Library of Congress to make internet access available to the unwashed masses, to contact the shadows he needed to find and get the information he sought. It surprised him, a little, when he saw the person involved in the meet. It wasn't like Mulder to seek out meetings in the dark ... his style was to openly confront the enemy. The only people he met in the dark, usually, were the ones he called friends. Or sources. Whatever his reasons, the smoking bastard wouldn't pass up the meeting. He had some sort of vested interest in Mulder. Krycek would use that. He had a time. A place. Patience, money, and a back alley transaction for the right weapon would complete the scene.

Then maybe he could get his damned arm seen to. The itching in the elbow that wasn't there any more was driving him nuts.

 

At the same time Alex Krycek was hacking the net in the Thomas Jefferson room, eight quiet men gathered in a tastefully appointed office in a high rise in Battery Park City, a chunk of Manhattan reserved for the moneyed and the powerful. They were both. They were also concerned, about one of their own who was no longer trusted to be one of them. When a member of this elite club lost his standing, he lost much more than that. They met to decide how, and when, where, and who would arrange for someone to pull the trigger.

Silencing Mulder would simply be an added, secondary benefit of the operation. He'd been an irritant for too long. Their primary target was more than an irritant, however. He was a danger to be eliminated.

The atmosphere in the office was remarkably clear, and the ashtrays were clean when the meeting dissolved.

 

He'd picked a good spot for it, anyway. Mulder had good instincts, for an officer of the law and seeker of truth. He'd've made a really good shadow, if he wasn't a spook. The irony appealed to his sense of humor, tattered as it was, and his lips stretched into an expression that could be loosely described as a smile. It had been so long since Krycek had had anything to smile about that the expression didn't come naturally to his face.

He eased further back into the shadows of the parking garage, leaning gingerly against the concrete pillar, trying to hear every breath the federal agent took. Looked like the Cancerstick was late, not unusual. The bastard liked to play mind games with people. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard the swish of rubber on pavement, and a late model dark blue Lexus pulled into view. Mulder straightened from his position by his own tan Taurus, but didn't move forward to greet his nemesis. Waiting for the other man to come to him. Krycek approved. Mulder was no slouch when it came to power games himself. Concentrating as he was, the tiny echoing click took his attention immediately. Peering into the surrounding shadows, he saw the movement behind and to the right of Mulder at the same moment the cigarette smoking man opened his door and stood up.

Time seemed to slow, and he reacted instinctively. He didn't think about the motivation for his actions until much later.

The glint of reflected light off the scope was his only focus as he threw himself violently forward, skidding across the greasy concrete floor, aiming his right shoulder in a perfect block at Mulder's torso. He heard four distinct cracks, no attempt at a silencer, why would they need one? No witnesses, not this late, and everyone at the meeting was meant to die. As the world tilted, he heard answering fire. Not from Mulder, he was lying on top of the taller man, blanketing him with his own body. From the shadows to Mulder's left. A Sig Sauer P228. He looked up, as time crashed back to its normal tempo, to see what looked like a wounded but still breathing Cancerman drop back into his seat and gesture wildly for the driver to peel out. In the flurry of sensation, sight and sound, he registered the solid thump of a body in the far shadows, the clatter of a rifle, the sharp sound of Dana Scully's voice calling something indistinguishable, the warmth of Mulder's chest under the side of his face, the strength of long legs tangled with his, the steady pump of blood washing along his own abdomen, a fire spreading with startling suddenness through his side ... and his fucking elbow was itching again. Then everything went black.

 

It had all gone to hell so fast. It had worked, but it had gone to hell, anyway. Now he had one body to explain, another to tend to, blood all over everything and Scully barking questions in his ear. This had just not gone right. Mulder's mind went into automatic as his hands flew over Krycek's prone body, trying to shift the sudden dead weight and determine the extent of the damage. He was wet, a warm viscous sensation of blood slicking between his fingers as he probed the other man's side, clenching his fist in the material to try and slow the bleeding.

"Mulder, are you all right?" The concern in her voice finally penetrated his abstraction, and he nodded, managing to sit upright and shifting Krycek to a more comfortable position.

"I'm okay. Not so sure about Krycek. What about the shooter?" His answer was a little muffled as he bent to try to see the wound in the dim light.

"Dead," she returned succinctly. "And him?" He didn't need to look to know she was staring at the slumped body sprawled across his lap.

"Not quite," he returned with an attempt at humor that didn't ring true. He was worried, and he wasn't willing to examine the depth of that worry yet. More important things to do now. Like make sure his hoped-for source of information didn't bleed to death all over the floor. "But he soon will be, if we don't get him out of here."

Scully knelt down, stripping off her jacket as she did so. Efficiently flipping the material into a thick pad, she pressed it against the torn flesh and held Mulder's hand firmly against it. "You keep that there, we'll take him to a clinic--"

"We can't take him to a hospital, Scully. They'll just finish the job." Working in tandem, they drew Krycek into an awkward lift and began to carry him to the car. The body under Mulder's hands felt like it was all angles and bones, and something was off-kilter, out of balance. Remembering the reason for the strange feel of the arm pressed next to his own side, he swallowed hard. Scully threw him an irritated glance and finished her thought.

"--a clinic I know where the staff is completely discreet. The doctor's an old friend of mine."

"Can't you take care of him, Scully?"

"I will do a lot of things for you, Mulder, but I won't rob blood banks for anyone, and he's gonna need some," she said wryly as they shouldered Krycek into the back seat, Mulder climbing in after him to maintain pressure on the bullet wound. "Besides, I really don't like digging bullets out of bodies on my sofa. Plays hell with the cleaning bills."

He stared at the back of her head for a full minute before he cracked up.

 

By the time Doctor Polson finished patching Krycek up, it was nearly three in the morning. He hadn't needed quite as much blood as Scully had feared, and the removal of the bullets went very well, both having lodged in muscle and soft tissue with no organ or bone damage to repair. That wasn't what had concerned her, however.

"He has an amazing pain tolerance level, and he heals very well, both a good thing, given what he has gone through." Her tone matched the tightness of her face. It had been a rough night, and botched medical procedures made her very angry. "What do you mean, Lydia?" Scully wasn't sure what had her friend upset, but it had to be major. The other doctor was one of the steadiest people she knew.

"The hacking job on his arm. What the hell did they use, an ax?"

"What?" came back at her, in stereo.

"You mean you didn't notice?" She was incredulous. "I thought you were the trained observers here?" Muttering something about her tax dollars at work, she dropped onto the small couch by the wall and leaned her head back. "Somebody whacked off his left arm. And I use that verb deliberately. Whoever did it hadn't the faintest idea what they were doing. The stump is covered in scar tissue, the end of the bone feels jagged and the x-rays show bone splinters in the surrounding flesh and embedded in the scar tissue. He's going to need more surgery than I can provide here, and probably several in a series, to clean up the mess. Some reconstructive work has been done, but the damage is still extensive. And," she swallowed dryly, eyes closing in distress at the thought, "from the pattern of the scarring, it looks like he moved ... a lot ... during the amputation."

"Oh, my god," Scully breathed.

"Moved?" Mulder asked, looking somewhat confused. "Wouldn't they, I don't know, strap him down or sit on him or something ..." His voice trailed off. "He was awake."

Both women stared at him. "Yeah," Scully agreed. "When you said peasants, you weren't kidding, were you, Mulder." It wasn't a question.

Mulder shook his head, clearing it of a nightmare image of Krycek writhing in agony as his arm was cut off. It made the bile rise in his throat. "It'll have to wait," he forced out. "Right now we have a higher priority -- keeping him alive." Turning to Doctor Polson, he asked urgently, "When can we move him?" Before she could voice her automatic protest, he hurried on. "For both his safety and yours. There are people out to kill him who don't particularly care who gets in their way. We have to take him to a safe place, and get him away from here, before they come looking for him."

Lydia looked to Scully for confirmation before sighing in resignation. "He'll be coming around in a little while. Physically, it won't make much difference where he recuperates as long as he has some peace and quiet. From the looks of it, between the butchery on his arm, obvious fatigue, malnutrition and the blood loss, not to mention the trauma of the bullet wounds, he needs some time to heal!"

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances, then Scully turned to her friend. "We'll take care of him, Lydia."

"When can we take him home?" Mulder pressed, feeling like a kid at the pound asking about a puppy, pushing down that odd feeling of anticipation again.

"As soon as he wakes up," she answered, not happy with the situation, but understanding that there really wasn't any alternative. Nodding at them both, she pulled herself up from the couch and returned to the recovery room, determined to make her patient as comfortable as possible for the move.

As the trim figure disappeared down the hall, Mulder turned to his partner. "I'll take care of him, Scully. Just tell me what I have to do."

She thought about it for a moment, then sighed. "Probably the best idea, Mulder. I can't promise I wouldn't mix a hefty dose of arsenic in with his chicken broth. If I took care of him it might very well be permanent."

"You're a doctor," he half-teased. "You wouldn't harm a patient."

"He killed my sister," she retorted, deadly serious. "For him, I might make an exception."

Having no answer for this, Mulder settled against the wall beside her and waited for Krycek to wake up.

 

There were times when having social misfits and near-hermits for best friends came in very handy. Hame Ill Dai Me was a lovely horse ranch in the middle of nowhere outside Alexandria, West Virginia ... perfect for a convalescent who didn't want to be found but still close enough for Mulder to make the necessary appearances in the office until he could clean up the most pressing paperwork and take Assistant Director Skinner to a nice, quiet lunch in an unbugged, seldom frequented restaurant. A quick synopsis degenerated into a detailed explanation, ranging from alien rocks to petrified scientists to Siberian work camps to chicken wire and murdered elders in nursing homes, covering terrified peasants, crawling alien parasites and wounded turncoats along the way. By the time the second hour stretched into the third, Walter Skinner was on the team. He and Scully would lead the search for the Cancerman and try to figure out what had happened to the Consortium, and who had targeted Cancerman, if, indeed, the old man had been the target. Knowing the way they operated, Mulder or even Krycek could have been. Between them, the AD and Scully would follow up every source they could find for information. Meanwhile, Mulder would be 'out of the area' on 'official business'. Translated, he would be keeping out of sight in case he *had* been the target, and keeping Krycek alive long enough to find out anything he might happen to know. As plans went, it wasn't the most well-detailed, but it was all they could do. They didn't have much time, and another hit might very well succeed.

 

It wasn't the first time he surfaced, or even the second, but for once the bed wasn't floating. This was an improvement. He thought.

Of course, the fact that he had absolutely no idea where the hell he was or how he got there wasn't doing much for his peace of mind. The last cogent memory he could dredge up had some really pleasant aspects to it -- namely the sheer tactile pleasure of having every inch of Mulder's long body touching his, something he only fantasized about in places where he was very securely hidden. Those orgasms had a tendency to make him pass out, and he couldn't indulge himself very often. On the other hand, other parts of the memory weren't nearly so enjoyable -- like the fact that he felt like someone was trying to turn his torso inside out with a blow torch, and the cold knot in his gut that told him he'd been too late, fucked up again, hadn't been up to the job, and this time Mulder was dead. Unable to face that certainty yet, he allowed his eyes to drift shut. Maybe this time he'd get lucky and he wouldn't surface again.

"Give it up, Krycek. You can't hide forever, and you're not faking well enough to fool anybody."

His eyes popped open, widening enough to hurt. He stared at the tall figure slouching in the door frame, and couldn't stop the grin that stretched his face until his cheeks hurt almost as much as his eyes. From the distrustful glare Mulder was sending his way, he had the sneaking suspicion he looked like a complete idiot, but it wasn't like it was something he could control. Here he was, alive, and there was Mulder ... alive ... and he wasn't being pounded on ... yet. Things were definitely looking up. He took a deep breath, then regretted it instantly as the muscles in his side stretched, the stitches pulled, and his abused body screamed abuse at him. He must have looked pretty bad -- or at least non-threatening -- because Mulder abandoned his post at the door and came to stand at the side of the bed, examining him critically.

"You look like shit." Well, that answered that question. He didn't have enough breath to actually answer the question, if there had been one buried in the comment, so he contented himself with raising his eyebrow. His ex-partner seemed to take that as encouragement, because he continued.

"I don't know what you've been doing to yourself over the past year or so, Krycek," and you don't want to, believe me, Mulder, he thought but kept to himself. "But I will know, eventually." Probably, he cracked to himself, but again stayed silent. Mulder was on a roll and he didn't want to stop it prematurely. Who knew what might slip out? "Now that you're finally awake, I'm going to get some answers. Starting with, why are you after the cigarette-smoking man? Why did he turn on you? And what the hell happened at Tunguska? How'd you get to be so damned friendly with that Nazi running the place, and just WHO the hell ARE you, Krycek?"

By the time he finished the litany of questions Mulder had the younger man by the shoulders and was shaking him, hard, frustration evident in every line of his body. Krycek really wished that he was better able to appreciate the contact, but the rough movement was threatening to make both his head and his side explode, and all he managed was a gasping, "Please!" before the room started to spin again. As he sank back into unconsciousness he thought fleetingly that one day Mulder was going to touch him without trying to beat him to death, and if -- when -- it happened, he'd probably pass out from sheer expectation and miss all the fun. Then it all went black. Again.

Mulder looked at the limp form dangling from his hands and felt something he hadn't ever expected to feel when faced with Alex Krycek. Protectiveness. And no small measure of guilt. Sure, there was a sense of satisfaction in taking out some of his frustration on such a worthy target, but then he'd never really considered himself as the kind of person who beat up on defenseless people, either. And this wasn't the first time he'd done it to Krycek. Remembering fists pounding into the stomach of a handcuffed man, and a rifle butt to the gut of a weaponless man, and overlaying that visual image with the weak, injured man currently hanging from his hands, he froze. He stared at the wide chest, bulky from the bandages, his eyes traced the vulnerable line of his throat to the rounded jawline, shadowed with four days of beard growth that only accentuated the paleness of the cheeks beneath the shadow. Long lashes lay swept over the thin skin beneath his eyes, circles under the closed lids reinforcing the unusual weakness of his enemy. With surprisingly gentle hands, he settled Krycek back onto the bed and cupped his hand under the younger man's head, straightening his neck to lay him more comfortably against the pillows. Pulling his hands away, he felt his fingertips linger as they brushed across the curls at the nape of his neck, the soft skin under his jaw, the curve of the edge of his earlobe. When one long forefinger found its way to the fullness of the lower lip framed in the scruffy beard, he froze again.

Oh, shit.

Maybe there was a reason he kept using Krycek for a punching bag. And it didn't have a damned thing to do with his father's death, or Scully's abduction, or the DAT tape. Sublimation was a wonderful thing.

It was deep green eyes, and an endearing grin, covering the true nature of the bastard. It was wide shoulders and a delectable ass and thighs that made his mouth water. It was a mouth made for suckling and sucking, and the curve of neck and shoulder just perfect for him to bury his face in. It was soft dark hair that his fingers itched to tangle in, and a teasing voice that made the hair on his arms stand up. For the first time in nearly three years he understood why the betrayal from this particular man had hurt so very much, and why his hatred for Krycek had always had that underlying tinge of anticipation. Why he never wanted to see him again, and looked for every possible opportunity to see him that he could find.

There was so much here that finally made sense. He didn't know why, but he knew that Krycek was connected to him. Like the reflection in a deep pool, somewhere hidden and green and mysterious, Krycek held a part of him that he couldn't share with anyone else. As he worked to uncover, so the other man worked to thwart him. He looked at Krycek and saw not only someone he hated, but someone he could become. The capacity for violence, the ability to push through anything and anyone to get to his objective, the obsession that could so easily and had so often taken control of his life ... Krycek was the dark reflection of himself. And he knew enough of narcissism, and selfishness, and emotional distance to know that they were a large part of the fascination Krycek held for him. He was triply damned with this man ... physically, he was beautiful, recent mutilation not withstanding. Emotionally, he was too closely attuned to himself not to be intriguing, with a distance and a talent for manipulation that was too much like his own for comfort. Mentally, he was complex, duplicitous, paranoid, and had an amazing instinct for self preservation, all a draw for someone who saw many of the same qualities in himself. Looking at Krycek was like looking in that pool on a dark night and seeing both a nightmare and a living fantasy.

He wanted him. He wanted to kill him. And he wanted to drive himself into him until neither one of them could remember their own names.

Unaware of his actions, Mulder sank to the side of the bed, settling on the carpet and watching Krycek's chest rise and fall with each breath.

He was in such deep shit he was never going to come clean.

 

The ringing wouldn't go away, and eventually, irritated, he rolled over to answer the phone. Wrong move. He stilled as the pull in his side gradually settled from a raging scream to a dull roar, and as he fell back against the bed he realized three things. One, the phone had stopped ringing. Two, it wasn't on the bedside table ... in fact, he didn't have a clue where it was. And three, he'd been reaching for it with the arm that wasn't there any more.

For a very long time he pondered these things, not even trying to fight the swell of depression that was doing its level best to drown him. He didn't feel safe, but he was used to that. He didn't know where he was, and he was getting used to that. His last memory now was Mulder manhandling him, and he could get used to that easily.

And his phantom elbow was still itching.

Fighting away that thought, he went back to Mulder and manhandling. He took out the one, small, fierce emotion that had managed to worm its way into his heart and survive, and studied it, turning it over in his mind, examining it from every angle. Deciding that he actually had time to think, since no one was actively trying to kill him at the moment, he forced himself to look hard at that emotion, and draw some conclusions. He was feeling very logical, when he ignored the little voice that was suggesting to him that right about now his best course of action would be to use his remaining hand to find his gun and use it to blow the top of his head off. Ignoring the voice, but keeping the suggestion under advisement, he smiled to himself at his own grim thoughts, and went back to concluding.

Okay. He was in love with Mulder. Nothing new there.

Mulder hated his guts. Wanted to kill him, or at least beat him to a pulp, then keep him around to use him for a punching bag, THEN kill him. Nothing new there either.

Next.

He wanted Mulder. Wanted him in the worst possible way, and the best. Wanted to make love to him, offer himself to him, hold him down and make him moan. Nothing new here. Rehash time.

Mulder wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. True, the file on the agent was pretty blunt about his bisexuality, and his tastes ran to brunette (or brunet), well built, slightly shorter than himself, fit, big eyes and pale skin. Phoebe Green had fit that criteria. So did he, himself. Once. He'd been chosen as Mulder's minder for just that reason, well, plus the fact that he was an amoral bastard who would do anything they ordered him to do. At one time the Consortium had probably had a plan C or D or double-Z (who knew how many layers they could think in) for him to seduce Mulder so they could blackmail him. Hadn't happened -- Duane Barry and related events had overtaken them. His bad luck, he would have enjoyed that a hell of a lot more than killing that tram operator. But that was a lifetime ago. Mulder liked 'em healthy. Whole. If there ever had been a trace of attraction, it had vanished, trampled by hatred and the need for revenge. Given the final coup de grace by a band of so-helpful serfs in the wilds of Siberia.

Although ... in Hong Kong, as he'd stared into those wide, frightened hazel eyes in the instant before he leapt out that hotel window, there had been ... something. And in the darkened cabin of the plane carrying them to Russia, it had sparked, for a moment. As they lay together in the cold dirt by the barbed wire, before Mulder went haring off down the hillside ... electricity, just for a heartbeat. And that last, cold night, in the jail cell ... it had been more than bravado, when their chests touched. Mulder's breath had caught. It hadn't been fear. It had ... smelled different. Felt different. Affected him differently.

Not that it mattered, now. He'd seen himself, seen what those sons of bitches in the forest had done to him. Seen the muted pity in the doctors' eyes as they informed him briskly that there was nothing more they could do, that he would just have to adjust. Yeah. Adjust to being a freak. If he'd had a hope in hell of it changing for the better, of actually mitigating the disaster that was his mutilated arm, that hope had died when the sniper had taken aim in the shadows of the underground garage. He was caught, the Cancerstick was still alive, he had no way of escape, the FBI had more reasons to kill him than to get him into reconstructive surgery, Scully was probably waiting for an excuse to put a bullet in his brain and Mulder hated him.

Still.

The only new thing in the entire situation was the fact that for the first time in his life, he was completely unsure of himself, his capabilities ... his attraction. He'd been maimed, and the knives had cut more than his flesh. He wanted to find a hole and climb in it, go to sleep and never wake up. He wanted Scully, with a loaded gun and no witnesses. He wanted anything, anyone, in the world, except the man he wanted and couldn't have, who looked at him as if he were a monster, and for the first time, he could not help but agree.

He didn't even know he was crying.

 

Mulder cradled the receiver and stared down at the hand he still rested atop the telephone. Something was happening, something big. The cigarette smoking man had gone underground, and it appeared as though a fissure had formed in the consortium. There was disarray in the ranks of the powerful. And gunmen were searching for targets. Scully had given him the condensed version of events, but the upshot was that he and Krycek were in the safest possible place right now, and the best thing they could do would be to keep their heads down and their butts covered. A large part of him wanted to be there, in the middle of the action, wherever the hell that was. This could be the break he'd been waiting for. Who knew what secrets could come floating to the top when this explosion was over? It could be the best chance he'd ever have at finding Samantha.

And it'd be a damned fine excuse to run away from Krycek.

His fingers clenched on the plastic under his hand, his knuckles turning white. When had his search been bumped over to make room for these ... other things in his life? His worry over Scully, yeah, that was understandable. His desire to take Cancerman down for what he'd done, not only to Scully but to his Mom, hell, even his Dad. That was not only understandable, but probably fitting vengeance for what had happened to Sam. But Krycek? Other than the fact that he was one of Cancerman's thugs, and that he should hate him for everything he'd done, where did he--? Oh. Oh, fuck. Where had that 'should' come from?

He stared at the telephone for several long moments, trying to empty his mind of everything, before he heard the noise. The sound of labored breathing, and small snuffling sounds. He took a deep breath and uncurled his fingers, forcing himself to leave the room and go find out what the hell Krycek was doing now. Unaware of the clenching of his fists or the grim set of his features, he thrust the door to the bedroom open and stepped inside.

And stopped.

He was ... crying? Krycek, crying? It didn't fit. But there he lay, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. His right arm was across his chest, his hand convulsively squeezing his left shoulder. His mouth was slightly open, and his nose was clogged with tears, and the wetness across his cheeks, down his temples and into his hair was a clear indication that he had been crying for some time.

Damn. He'd hurt him. Guilt washed through him, taking away much of the confusion that had been clouding his thoughts since his earlier epiphany, standing beside this same bed. Whatever Krycek had done, whatever he had been and still was, Mulder couldn't hurt him. Didn't like to see him in pain. Wanted to stop the tears that were drowning him. Wanted to hold him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, hard, trying to focus his thoughts. There was a hitch in the thick breathing coming from the bed, and he dropped his hand to see Krycek, staring not at the ceiling but directly at him. For that moment, there were no shields. The anger and the distrust were washed away, exposing pure misery and heart-deep pain. Something in Mulder broke, then, with an almost audible crack. He didn't know he moved, but somehow he was beside the bed, sitting sideways atop the covers, reaching for Krycek, wanting to ease that pain.

Krycek rolled away from the reaching arms, flinching as if expecting a blow, but Mulder was too fast for him. His hands caught at the stump and pulled him backwards, and the injured man yowled as the fingers tightened over the recently reopened wounds and pressed on the new stitches. Mulder checked, his clutch easing automatically, and Krycek continued his interrupted roll, landing painfully on the floor on the far side of the bed. He curled up into the tightest ball Mulder had ever seen an adult achieve, and the agent forced himself to stop, give him some space, let him relax. He'd hurt him again, goddamnit, even now, trying to give comfort, he'd managed to hurt him again. Mulder swung his legs up on the bed and folded them in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the shaking man huddled against the wall.

"I'm sorry," he offered gently, then repeated it when there was no indication his apology had been heard. "Krycek. Alex. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He paused, watching the other man closely. The shaking was beginning to abate a little, but he hadn't uncurled at all. "I just wanted to talk to you." He waited patiently until wet, wide green eyes peeked at him over upraised knees.

"Talk?" Krycek's voice sounded husky, probably from the tears. That, and the rampant disbelief, echoed in his eyes. "Not punch?"

Mulder actually found himself smiling slightly. "No. Not punch. Or handcuff, or hit with anything large and blunt. Just talk."

The trembling had almost completely disappeared, and the tensed figure relaxed fractionally. He maintained his distance, and Mulder made no move to close the gap between them.

"Yeah. It's past time, don't you think?" He kept his voice gentle, as if coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding. In a way, that was exactly what he was doing. "I think if we stay away from the big questions, the why and the how and the who are you questions, we might actually be able to talk without both of us getting pissed off and me beating the crap out of you again."

A square chin appeared and rested on top the knees. The green eyes stared suspiciously at him. "Be a nice change."

"For both of us," Mulder agreed. "If I ask you a question, will you answer me?"

What could have been a smile ghosted across Krycek's face, but was gone before Mulder could tell for certain. "Maybe," he replied honestly. "Try."

"How'd you get out of Russia?" This had been bothering him. If Krycek knew the colonel running the camp, why had his arm gotten chopped off? Why hadn't he just run back to the camp? "Why'd you stay with the peasants, the ones who -" How the hell did he put it diplomatically? Whacked off a limb wasn't quite the way he wanted to say it.

"Whacked off my arm?"

Then again, Krycek was pretty direct when he wanted to be. "Yeah."

"I was still trying to find you. Don't ask me why," forestalling exactly that question, at least for the moment. "I needed to make sure you were okay." The younger man stared at Mulder's intact left arm. "Obviously, you were. Hell of a lot better shape than I was. As to how I got out of the country, well. Solyony was a fellow officer in the Russian army, and once he confirmed my identity I was starting to work on him, get him to release you. Then you broke camp and took me with you. He treated it as an abduction and did a sweep of the forest. I'm not sure how long it was after they cut my arm off -- I was drifting in and out a lot -- but soldiers from the camp swept the area and rescued me. I was choppered out to Moscow, debriefed in the hospital, eventually discharged and went home to St. Petersburg. I cleaned up a few odds and ends at home, and made arrangements to come back to the States to get my arm tended to." He stopped the narrative, dropping his eyes from Mulder's to stare at the stump lying uselessly against his side. "Don't ever get maimed in Moscow, Mulder." There was a twisted sort of humor underlying his words. "Even for the servants of Mother Russia, the medical facilities suck."

"I'll take that into consideration," Mulder tried to keep his own rejoinder light, but knew it didn't come off when Krycek suddenly glared at him, showing more spirit than he had since the night he'd saved Mulder's life.

"I don't want your fucking pity, Mulder," he growled.

"Well, tough shit, 'cause you have it," the older man shot back. "I'd pity the devil himself if something like that happened to him. Doesn't mean I have to like you," he continued, but found his eyes drifting away, unable to hold the green gaze. "Doesn't mean I don't think you're still a sick, mean son of a bitch who I wouldn't love to turn over to Cancerman and his cronies and cheer from the sidelines while they blow you to pieces!" Abruptly his voice dropped. "But I won't."

"Why not?" Krycek's voice could have cut diamonds.

"Because you have something I want." A flame leapt in those dark eyes, and Mulder nearly lost his train of thought. "Information," he added hastily. "You can help me expose them, put them out of business for good. Stop them. Break them. Take away their power. Get the cure for what they did to Scully," he swallowed dryly, "what they did to me. Find my sister." The last words were almost a whisper.

"Why?" The question was softer, but even more urgent. "Why, when you admit you can't trust me?"

"Then why do I?" It was out before he could stop it. Krycek sat up more fully, wincing at the pain in his side, but ignoring it to concentrate on Mulder. "I shouldn't. God alone knows why I keep doing it. But I do. I trusted you about the rock with the alien lifeforms in it. I trusted you in Siberia. And, probably due to the lack of viable alternatives and the fact that I'm undeniably certifiable, I trust you now."

Krycek had gradually leaned forward until his face was nearly on line with the side of the bed. "Why?" A whisper, now, only the slightest breath.

"Because I'm a fucking idiot," Mulder gritted out, then bent over and caught Krycek's jaw with his hand, steadying himself with the other hand clutching the edge of the mattress. Not giving himself time to think about what he was doing, moving on instinct, he covered the slightly opened lips with his own. Angling his head, he moved his mouth slowly, dragging it over Krycek's, thrusting his tongue gently into the slick warmth within. Part of him expected to get his tongue bitten, part expected to get slugged, part was wondering when Krycek would pass out from shock. He was completely unprepared for the response he got.

Long fingers laced through the thick hair at his crown, drawing him closer still, and the other man's tongue pushed back against his own, sliding over it to join the dance. A low moan sounded from somewhere, Mulder wasn't sure it if had come from himself or Krycek. He pushed harder, almost attacking now, gentleness giving way to passion. Just as he was beginning to lose himself in the sensation of lips sucking at lips and tongues pushing against teeth Krycek ripped himself away from him and landed with a solid thud back against the wall. Mulder found himself following automatically, then stopped as if he'd run into a brick wall when he saw the expression on Krycek's face. It was the weirdest combination of lust, anger, disgust and pain he had ever seen.

"Wha-" He couldn't get his mouth to work right. He seemed to have forgotten how to talk. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he licked his lips and tried again. "What happened?" God, his voice sounded strangled. "What's wrong?"

"What isn't?" Krycek spat at him. "What the fuck is this, Mulder? Some sick way of getting back at me? Some kind of perverted mind game? Get him hot and he won't think, then you can slip in the knife? What the hell are you trying to pull, Mulder?" By the time he finished he was screaming. Mulder stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Before he could formulate any sort of reply, Krycek pulled himself up with unexpected speed and dodged around the end of the bed, heading for the door. He didn't make it.

Mulder shook off the shocked paralysis he'd been held by and slung an arm around Krycek's waist, pulling him back, off balance, to land on the bed. Taking care not to put pressure on either the bandaged side or the aching stump, he rolled Krycek onto the bed and lay on top of him, holding him down with his entire body. Krycek struggled, trying a few exceptionally dirty moves that were not taught in any standard self defense course, but his own physical weakness and the remnants of his arousal were against him. Unable to get purchase with his heels or a good grip with his hand, with no room to maneuver for a kick and with Mulder's solid weight pinning him completely, he finally stopped moving. He lay, panting, growling incoherently with rage and fear, trying to ignore his resurgent erection.

Waiting for the last of the fight to go out of the body beneath his, Mulder sighed into the soft skin at the side of Krycek's neck, directly under his mouth. Restraining the urge to bite him, then lick him, Mulder turned Krycek's earlier question against him.

"Why?" he asked softly, enjoying the goosebumps that rose over the skin under his breath. "What just happened? Why did you try to run away?" For the longest moment he didn't think the younger man was going to answer. When it came, it surprised him.

"I tried to hold you." The words were so low he nearly missed them.

"You were holding me, you had your hand in my hair." He didn't understand what Krycek meant.

"With both arms. I tried to hold you. And I couldn't." There was another convulsive movement, and Mulder braced himself for a renewed struggle, but Krycek merely buried his face in the curve of Mulder's shoulder and kept talking, his voice a monotone, drained of life. "We might have had a chance. We can't now. I'm not worth it. I fucked up. You hate me. With good reason. I can't change that. Wouldn't if I could, and I can't explain why to you. You wouldn't get it. And I can't take your pity, not yours. I want you so much and you hate my guts and there's never gonna be anything else and I can't hold you--" The words broke off, and Krycek's good arm came up over Mulder's back, holding him tightly, hurting him with the pressure.

"One's enough," he spoke directly into the ear now under his mouth. "It's not pity. I don't know what the hell it is. It should probably be hatred, but it isn't. It should be expediency, but it's not that either." He shifted, pressing his own erection into Krycek's groin. "Feels a hell of a lot like lust. I don't know what I feel about you, Alex. A lot of things. Anger, yeah, and a shitload of confusion. I want to keep you around. I want to find out what makes you tick. I want to take you apart and put you back together again. And I want to fuck you until neither one of us can move."

His hands had been busy as he'd been talking, wriggling underneath Krycek to work at his sweatpants, thrusting his hands between the material and the soft skin of his buttocks, curving his fingers over the warm flesh and hard muscle there. Krycek writhed under him, loosening his grip on Mulder's back, allowing him room to move.

The only sound in the room was the harsh panting now coming from both men, the rustle of cloth and the slick slide of hands on sweating flesh. They got in one another's way, each trying to strip the other, until Mulder finally growled a warning at Krycek, and the younger man relaxed, allowing himself to be bared and savored. Until Mulder pulled the tee shirt away from his shoulders, and Krycek froze. Not letting himself be deterred, he ripped the soft cotton away and threw it off to the side of the bed to join Krycek's sweatpants and his own discarded clothing. Stopping for a breath, he levered himself up and looked at his prize. Krycek lay completely still, staring at some distant point over his shoulder, refusing to see Mulder's reaction to his first sight of the stump. Mulder sighed.

"It's bandaged, Krycek. It's not going to gross me out." Wary eyes, dark with expected rejection, slid sideways to meet his own. "It doesn't matter to me, Alex," he added fiercely. "I've seen worse." Dark brows rose in disbelief, and he snorted impatiently. "Fuck it. When did talking ever convince you of anything? You lie too well. So do I." With that, he leaned down and traced the tops of the visible scars on the stump of Krycek's left arm with his tongue. Beneath him, the other man's entire body stiffened, and a low moan rumbled from his chest. The reddened skin under his mouth twitched, and he smiled. "Sensitive, huh? It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Not this time, he added to himself, I've done enough for now. Then he settled his body softly atop Krycek's and stopped thinking at all.

Tracing his mouth from the ruined limb up over the damp skin of Krycek's shoulder, he began to map every inch of the strong neck, lightly furred chest and hard abdomen. He lingered at the small nipples, licking and nipping lightly until they beaded into tight peaks. Krycek's hand ran restlessly over his back, up to cup the nape of his neck, strong fingers kneading, playing with the short curls there. Small whimpers of encouragement greeted his efforts, and he closed his eyes, savoring the other man's responsiveness. By the time he lazily kissed his way down to Krycek's erection, the hips under his hands were thrusting uncontrollably toward him, and the whimpers had resolved themselves into mumbled pleas. Mulder wrapped his fist around the base of the cock and squeezed lightly. Looking past the straining flesh, slick with pre-ejaculate, to Krycek's face, he felt a surge of triumph at the open need that made his expression both more beautiful and more honest than he had ever seen it. As he paused, kneeling over Alex's cock, he watched and waited. Not understanding why he was being denied, Krycek forced his eyes open and looked beseechingly down. That was Mulder's cue.

Running his clenched fist up to the top of the shaft, he dropped his mouth around the head and sucked hard. Krycek's body jerked and he groaned at the sensation. Mulder didn't allow him to recover his breath, initiating a hard milking rhythm with his hand and sucking steadily at the same time. Nudging the long legs apart with one shoulder, he pressed his other hand up along the cleft of Krycek's buttocks, searching the sweat-slicked skin for the small opening. He circled the anus with the tip of his finger, pressing harder with each suck at the head of Alex's cock, until the man in his arms was bucking between his two hands. Krycek's hand was fisted in his hair now as he strained to fuck Mulder's mouth, but the bigger man was having none of it, determined to maintain his control over the situation. When the bucking became desperate and the pleas degenerated into wordless cries, Mulder carefully thrust the finger that had been teasing Krycek's anus into the tight channel, sliding his other hand down Krycek's cock to pump his balls and lowering his head to take as much of the cock down his throat as he could. That was all it took, and Alex came explosively, with what sounded like a howl.

Riding the furious movements until they gentled into stillness, Mulder slipped his finger from Krycek's body and turned him over in one swift movement. Using the semen he hadn't swallowed and his own pre-cum, he lubricated his aching cock. He spread Alex's ass cheeks widely and sank to the root of his erection into the relaxed hole. Krycek was so wiped out from his climax he didn't even twitch, and there was no resistance in his muscles. Mulder draped himself over the other man's back, relishing the clamping heat around his cock, licking at the sweat on the side of Krycek's neck, then biting down, needing to mark him, somehow, to own him, if only for a little while. The small pain roused the exhausted man, and he nudged upward with his hips, not to dislodge the intruder, but to encourage him to move. Mulder took the hint, and began to slowly pump in and out, drawing nearly free before sinking all the way back in. Krycek moaned with each downstroke, and began to actively hump backward as his erection was reawakened. Then Mulder leaned up, changing the angle of penetration slightly, and Krycek gasped and jerked harder.

"God. Right there." Oh, yeah, he'd aimed true, Mulder grinned to himself. He sped up the pace, then, knowing his lover was with him again. With each thrust the edge of his cock grazed Krycek's gland, and the stimulation was quickly driving him to fever pitch. Alex tried to snake his hand down to his groin, but Mulder got there first, batting it away. He fisted Krycek's erection, and began to pound into him in earnest, short, sharp, hard thrusts countered by the steady gripping pull and slide on the hard cock in his hand. Krycek was out of control, writhing, humping, and yelling into the bedsheets, and his reactions finally broke Mulder's control. With a final deep thrust, Mulder froze, thighs clenching as he orgasmed, three heavy pulses into the man underneath him. Krycek reacted to the hot flood within him with his own climax, gripping Mulder's fingers and forcing them to contract hard around his cock. The constriction of the sphincter muscles around his shuddering cock pulled the last of his orgasm from him, and Mulder collapsed onto Krycek's back, barely remembering to avoid the bandaged side. He slid out and off, coming to rest curled around his lover's undamaged side, and lay there gasping for air, trying hard not to black out.

As his heart rate gradually dropped to something approaching normal, a tentative hand reached out to him, then drew back, as if unsure of its reception. Fighting off the sleep that was trying to claim him, Mulder wrapped both arms around Krycek's waist and pulled him into the curve of his body, nuzzling his face into the back of Alex's neck, inching one leg over his hips, pulling him close. Mine, he thought muzzily, then gave up the fight and fell soundly asleep.

 

They should have talked. They needed to. They didn't get the chance. The first indication they had that anything was up was a gasp from the doorway, then a slamming door. Mulder tried to unwrap himself from Krycek, grab his gun, find his pants and see who the hell had been at the door all at the same time. He ended up on his ass beside the bed, stark naked, covered in dried semen, clutching the pillow, wondering why his gun wasn't there.

Alex dove the other direction, self preservation taking priority over such things as modesty, the need to hide overriding everything. He landed with a painful thump on the floor between the bed and the wall, again, then peered cautiously over the top of the mattress in time to see Walter Skinner's utterly impassive face staring back at him. Oh, shit. If Skinner was here, then it must have been Scully who'd, er, caught them _in flagrante delicto_. Great. Yet another reason for her to want to put a bullet between his eyes. He gradually straightened until he could see the rest of the room. When he saw Mulder, sprawled like a pagan sacrifice at his boss' feet and frozen in place with mortification, he sighed and leaned his forehead against the bed. This was not going well.

Skinner cleared his throat, pushed his glasses unnecessarily back up his nose, then turned and left the room. Mulder didn't say a word, and as he watched the older man carefully replace the useless pillow and reach for his jeans, Alex wondered what the hell he could say that wouldn't be completely out of place. Nothing suggested itself to him, so he simply sat on the floor and watched Mulder get dressed. When it looked as though the agent was just going to walk out the door, he knew he had to try something.

"I'm sorry." It wasn't what he'd thought he was going to say. Maybe that it had been incredible, they had to do it again sometime. Or, gee, no doubt they're wondering what we were doing! Or even, you could tell them it was fuck me or kill me and you decided you needed me breathing more than you'd enjoy killing me. But all he could get out was one pathetic little phrase, and a lie at that. Because he wasn't sorry. He had wanted it, and he wanted it again as soon as he could get it. Mulder lifted his head, and he sympathized with the dazed expression in the sleepy hazel eyes. He wasn't quite thrusting on all cylinders himself.

"Sorry it happened, or sorry we got caught?" The deep question made him pause. That was an easy one.

"Sorry you're going to have to smooth this over with your partner and your boss." He raised himself from the floor and leaned over the bed for the sweatpants. "I'm never gonna be sorry it happened." Turning the worn cotton over between his fingers, he added, "Wanted it to happen too long to ever be sorry." There was the rustle of denim, and he waited for the response, then realized he was alone in the room.

Status quo.

 

Mulder made his way into the airy kitchen, following the clinking of cups and the rushing of tap water. As he stepped through the doorway he was overly conscious of his scent, a combination of semen and sweat that had dried on his skin, and his rumpled appearance, complete with little red marks along his neck and chest, just showing through the thin material of his tee shirt. He should probably have taken a shower, but he knew the longer he put this off the more difficult it would be. Besides, he wanted an update on the Consortium.

"Hi, Scully. Sir." He swallowed and waited for their reactions. Scully was measuring coffee into a filter, and she determinedly finished pouring the grains before she turned to him. Skinner looked at him, compressed his lips, and carefully placed the mugs in his hand onto the counter beside Scully. Neither one of them said a word. His partner was looking at him searchingly, an equal mix of concern and shock in her eyes. Skinner was impassive, as usual. Yeah. Wasn't going to be easy. He straightened his shoulders and prepared to 'take his medicine,' years of experience with his father standing him in good stead for once. At least they weren't going to knock him on his ass. He hoped. "I'm surprised to see you here. From the last phone call, I got the impression that things were really moving in the back room capitols of the world." And the ball is in your court.

"It is," Scully responded.

Okay, Mulder thought moodily, if you want to ignore it that's fine by me. So what if I smell like a whorehouse and have obviously been fucking my brains out? More important things on the front burner. He opened his mouth to ask the follow-up question and she beat him to the punch.

"What the hell is going on with you and Krycek?" she blurted out. She shot a glance at their boss then pinned her gaze back on her partner.

Oh. Then again, maybe not. He could feel his face burning and knew he was blushing furiously. "It's just sex, Scully. Gotta find some way to keep him quiet until we can use him." A strangled cough came from behind him, and he closed his eyes, consternation warring with disgust at Alex's timing in his expression.

"I take it that time's here," Krycek said in a hard voice, pushing past Mulder and reaching into the refrigerator for a can of orange juice. Instinctively, Scully reached out and steadied the can as he pulled the tab. He stared at her, stared down at the can, and cleared his throat. "Thanks." It came out much softer than she'd expected.

"You're welcome," she replied automatically, then found herself staring at a livid bitemark at the base of his throat. He flinched uncomfortably, and she licked her lips, turning back to Mulder. He watched them from the doorway, warily.

"What's the situation, sir?" He felt somehow safer directing the question to Skinner. Trying to put at least the appearance of professionalism on the situation.

"The dust is settling. Several members of the inner circle of the Consortium have been found dead under various circumstances, and the assassinations appear to have stopped, at least for now. Cancerman is still alive--"

"Shit," Krycek couldn't help hissing. He gulped the orange juice and then clamped his mouth shut. Skinner looked at him, then nodded slightly in agreement before continuing. One corner of Krycek's mouth turned up.

"And it looks as though he has staged some sort of coup. My sources indicate that he has consolidated his base of power and is directing the operations of the Consortium now, with little input from any other major players. Of course, we don't know how many major players are still left after this purge, but I get the impression there aren't many."

"Damn," Mulder cursed softly. His eyes met Krycek's in a moment of perfect understanding. It was broken by Scully, clearing her throat to get their attention.

"That might not be the worst thing, Mulder."

How? She'd lost him. "In what way, Scully?"

"Cancerman seems to be the one in the Consortium who was most intent on protecting you."

"That's true," interjected Krcycek. "More than once I heard that others in the Group wanted to take care of you permanently. He argued against it. He told me once that he didn't want to make you a martyr, but I think there was more to it than that." They all looked at him, and he shrugged his shoulder. "I never did find out what it was."

"Well," Scully continued, leaning against the counter, "there's something else to consider. Of all the members of the Consortium's inner circle, you worked most directly with Cancerman, am I right?" The question was directed at Krycek, and he nodded his agreement. "So if we're going to expose them, then he would be our most logical target. We've got the most ammunition to use against him."

"The deal is still on the table, Krycek," Skinner put in. He sounded businesslike, but his face reflected his distaste. He obviously didn't like or trust the double agent, but he had to work with what was at hand.

"Perhaps this will help," Alex began softly. Mulder came forward into the room, needing for some reason he couldn't explain to be closer to him as he spoke. Bright green eyes flashed brief gratitude at him before Krycek fixed his gaze on Skinner and began his report. "I am a major in the Russian Army, intelligence corps. Well, I was. I've been invalided out," he waved his stump slightly to underline his statement. "In the course of my duties, some of which involved paranormal situations and all of which were political in scope, I was seconded to an international group of policy makers. This group had no name." For the first time, Mulder could hear the cadence of a native foreign speaker in Krycek's voice.

"I was in deep cover, first to the Group, to gather intelligence on their activities for my superiors in the Army. Then through the Group, to gather information on the activities of the FBI and specifically on Agent Mulder. Finally, under the Cancerstick, to directly involve myself in current investigations and make sure that the outcome was beneficial to the Group. When it began to unravel, I had no choice. I went rogue from the Group, and returned to my initial mission, to gather intelligence directly for my superiors again. They were unable to give me any support in the field, and my continuing assignment was to keep Agent Mulder alive. They were convinced that he either knew something or was, for some unknown reason, highly important to members of the Group, and therefore bore watching." He paused long enough to glance at Mulder. Then he swallowed and finished explaining. "After the last of the evidential rocks were destroyed by an associate, along with possible witnesses--"

"The people in the nursing home!" Scully was furious, but containing it. Barely. Krycek refused to look at her, concentrating completely on Skinner.

"-- my associate returned to Russia and was then, himself, eliminated. I was removed from active duty due to my injuries and retired. As a private citizen, no longer acting on orders, I decided to return to the United States and seek better medical care for my arm. Also, while I was here, I intended to clean up some unfinished business." Bitterness was creeping into his crisp tone. "The whole mission fell apart because of the Cancerstick. He was mine, and I arranged to kill him. Myself. Then when I arrived at the meeting place, I discovered someone else had the same idea."

"But you didn't kill him," Mulder found himself interjecting. "You saved my life. Why?"

"We're back to why, again, are we?" Krycek grinned at him, then lost the grin, staring at nothing, eyes narrowed. "It appears my need to protect you had been too deeply ingrained to ignore, even for the opportunity to kill my enemy. I had to, Mulder." He looked over at the agent. "No choice. Just ... instinct."

Mulder swallowed, sure now that there was more here than lust, and just as sure that he'd completely fucked it up -- again -- with his mouthing off earlier. Before he had the chance to say a word, Skinner spoke up.

"Your gut reaction was a lucky one for us, then. Are you willing to work with us?" There wasn't really a choice in the question, but Krycek answered it as if there had been.

"Yes. I want to bring him down." He held up his hand, stilling Skinner's reply. "I won't say or do anything that will disclose any of my country's intelligence, and I won't compromise operational details that pertain to my original mission. But I will help you, to the greatest extent I can, to take that bastard down as far as he can go."

Mulder watched Skinner weigh the offer, and accept it, without a word. Scully stared hard at Krycek, then nodded herself. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, he asked, "So what's the plan now?"

Skinner gestured to a laptop lying on the table. "We get every bit of information out of Krycek that he can give us and we start leaking it to anyone with a printing press or a satellite feed."

"The Gunmen are helping," Scully added. "I took the liberty of stopping by and talking to them."

"And Frohicke let you escape with your virtue intact?" Mulder couldn't help but ask.

"You're not in the best position to be asking about virtue, Mulder," she shot back dryly, and he shut up, blushing all over again. "And I'm a big girl. I can handle Froggy. They're doing some ... creative programming--"

"Which I know nothing about," Skinner hastened to clarify.

"-- that should net us some hard evidence to back up Krycek's information." She gestured to the laptop and Alex nodded.

"Mind if I take a shower first? I'm a little sticky." His mild comment brought all action in the kitchen to a halt, and Scully very slowly raked him up and down with her glare. He withstood the assault with studied patience that Mulder envied, and she sighed.

"We have time. Whenever you're ready."

He nodded and wandered from the room, passing closer than absolutely necessary to Mulder on the way out, and the agent knew he was going to pay for his earlier remarks. The clatter of cabinet doors opening brought his attention back to the kitchen and he turned to see Skinner efficiently setting out the makings for dinner. Leaving him to it, escaping into the living room for a much-needed break to sort out his thoughts, he didn't hear Scully following behind him. He dropped into an armchair and stared out the window, absently plucking at his tee shirt where it was sticking to the itchy, dried semen caught in his chest hair.

"You want to talk about it?" She settled easily across from him on the settee, and he slewed around to look at her directly.

"Don't know what to say, actually," he admitted.

"Just a quickie, to pass the time?" She managed a creditable grin, and he smiled in appreciation for her efforts. Then he shook his head in denial.

"No," he stated softly. "I'm afraid not."

"What are you afraid of?" she asked just as softly.

"Finding out I've fallen in love with a, what, quadruple agent? Who has betrayed so many people so many different ways so often he needs a scorecard to keep count? Who considers he did it all for his country so he'd do it all again, even though he has hurt just about everybody he has come into contact with? Who keeps showing up from the shadows and saving my life? Who has some deep seated need to protect me, and who makes me trust him when I *know* damned well I shouldn't?" By the time he wound down he was slumped forward in the chair, confused eyes locked with hers, pleading for some help, some explanation, some way to deal with the welter of emotions that were turning him inside out. She reached forward, holding his clenched fists in hers for comfort, for both of them.

"Maybe you should trust your instincts, Mulder." He cocked his head to one side, not sure what she was telling him. She pursed her lips, ordering her thoughts and trying again. "Krycek said his need to protect you was instinctive. You've proven over and over again that you're willing to follow his lead, put your life in his hands. Maybe something in you recognizes and responds to his instinct, and that same something is what made you fall in love with him." She blinked, shook her head slightly at what she'd just said, and forged ahead. "I don't think it's all one sided. And we're going to be in for a rough ride in the next few months. We're not going to have time to deal with this when the action starts, and none of us can afford to have it interfering with our work, which it just might do if you don't clear the air with him."

"But what the hell do I say to him?" It was a cry for help, one he would only ever make to her.

"Tell him the truth, Mulder." She smiled at him then, a genuine, full blown Scully special, and he found himself relaxing into its warmth. "You're good at that, you know. It's your specialty." She squeezed his clenched hands once, then let them go and stood up. "Now I have to go help Walt with dinner, and you should follow Krycek's example and get a shower. You're a little ripe, there."

"Walt?" He grinned up at her, and was startled by her blush.

"Yeah." She matched his grin, and he shook his head.

"Been a day for surprises," he said wryly, and she inclined her head toward the bathroom.

"And it's not over yet." She shot him a meaningful look, then turned and went into the kitchen. He stared at his fingers, wrapped tightly around one another, then pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the showers. She was so, so right, and he was not looking forward to explaining himself.

 

Krycek didn't acknowledge Mulder as the other man entered the bedroom, fresh from his shower. He was concentrating on taping fresh gauze over the wound in his side. What there was of his left arm was unbandaged, the fresh air feeling good on the newer stitches. For a little while, when Mulder was making love -- having sex with him, he'd actually forgotten just what a god- awful mess his body was. Then the intrusion of the real world had reminded him. Forcefully. Mulder's own words were just the death knell he'd been expecting after seeing the others. So much for actually believing it hadn't made a difference. He wondered what Mulder felt like, acting the whore himself for once. Alex had done it, when he'd had to, and even when he'd accepted the need for his actions he'd always felt dirty. It made him uncomfortable to think of Mulder feeling that way, but he told himself harshly to deal with it and get past it. Mulder obviously didn't give a shit about him, and that was no surprise. So why the hell was he was feeling betrayed?

"I lied."

The soft voice beside him shattered his concentration, and the gauze pad slipped from his fingers. "Goddamnit!" he snarled, making an abortive attempt to catch the pad -- with his missing arm. He could have screamed in frustration, but he locked his jaw and reached again for the pad, this time with his right arm. Before he could get it, Mulder picked it up from the sheet and laid it gently against his side. He started to jerk back, and the fingers curved around his ribs.

"Let me. After all, you took the bullets for me, least I could do is patch you up afterward."

He closed his eyes and let Mulder tend to him, taping the bandages securely over the incision sites. "Yeah," he managed, dully. "Least you could do." Strong fingers cupped his jaw and forced his head inexorably up. He stubbornly kept his eyes closed. He knew he was acting like a child, but he just wasn't up to this, yet. He might never be.

Soft kisses brushed over his eyelashes, startling him. "Ought to be a law against lashes that long on a man. Glad there isn't. I like 'em." The butterfly kisses came again, and he found himself leaning forward into the caress. Before he could pull back, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled further forward to nestle against warm, damp skin. Mulder's voice dropped to a comforting rumble, and he relaxed into the embrace.

"I did lie, you know. Wasn't just sex." More tiny kisses, moving along his eyebrow, over his temple, down the line of his cheek. "More than sex." Full lips nibbled at the corner of his own, and he turned his face away. The nips and kisses continued, as did that deep voice. "Have a nasty suspicion it's love. But then, you know me, I've always been the suspicious type." He opened one eye, not trusting the thread of laughter running through Mulder's words. There was a brightness in the hazel eyes so close to his own that reassured him in spite of himself. "Don't listen to what I say, Alex," the other man urged. "You know I use words as my first line of defense. You scared me." The eyes got closer until he lost himself in the dilated pupils, then they swam out of focus as the wide lower lip brushed across his own. "Got nervous, shot off my mouth, stuck my foot down my throat. The usual."

A warm tongue invaded his mouth, and he let it, feeling dazed. "Ignore me." Like he could! The tongue swept back into his mouth and halfway down his throat, and the tenor of the kiss altered in an instant. Gentleness was replaced with urgency, and he found himself caught between the headboard and Mulder's chest, thrusting just as hard at Mulder's mouth as the other man was thrusting at his. An unwary movement caught one of his incisions, and he hissed in pain. Mulder stopped immediately, and then ran one hand tenderly over the bandage. The gentleness was back, and he had room to breathe again.

"You're a little tough to ignore," Krycek muttered, staring at that swollen mouth, caught between kissing the bastard senseless and breaking his arms for touching him again. The mouth quirked up.

"That's a good sign."

"Is it?" He wasn't giving an inch.

"Yes," Mulder replied seriously. "Look, we're going to be working together, and we're taking on some first class sons of bitches. You know that, or should, since you were one of them for so long. We can't afford to be distracted. We have to get this worked out. And we have a lot of serious shit to work through." Suddenly, the intent look was replaced by an unexpected hesitancy. "That is, if you want to make this work."

There was a long silence. Krycek looked from Mulder's drawn-in mouth, to his eyes, looking somewhat as if he expected to get hit. Puppy dog eyes. Damn him, he had the best puppy look Alex had ever seen. "Do you?" Turn it around on him. See what the reaction was.

"Yes." No hesitation there. "I don't understand this. I don't understand you, or us, or how there could be an 'us.' But I think I have to find out."

"Why?" The root of their relationship, Krycek mused.

"I see you in me, and I see me in you."

Mulder actually looked as if that should make sense. He stared at the older man for a long moment, then asked intelligently, "Huh?"

"There's something between us, some sort of instinct or recognition, or *something*. I can't leave it alone. I've tried, and all I do is end up sublimating it and beating the shit out of you every chance I get. I gave into it and had the most intense sex I've ever had in my life. I discovered that when I hurt you, I hurt myself, and I have the strongest urge to protect you. I *don't* know what it means. But I want to find out."

It sounded like love to Krycek, but for once he kept silent. "Your own little X File, right here in your bed, hm?" It came out wrong, harsher than he'd meant. Mulder's face closed up, and he reached out to the other man, resting his hand on Mulder's thigh. "I want to find out, too. You're the one always digging around trying to find the truth. It sounds like a good idea to me." He ran his fingers lightly along the tensed quadriceps. "Most intense sex in your life, huh?"

Mulder grinned at him, relaxing into the stroking hand. "Yeah. Mind-blowing."

Krycek grinned back , the shadows finally receding from his eyes. "Good place to start." A muffled shout from the hallway caught his attention, and he nodded toward the kitchen. "After dinner."

"And after work," Mulder added, detaching himself with reluctance from Krycek. He helped the younger man dress, matter-of-factly adjusting to his needs, and the tension between them dissipated, both men finally relaxing. As they headed for the kitchen, Alex caught Mulder by the waistband, pulling him up for a final word.

"Not gonna be easy. Too much between us for that." Mulder nodded agreement, hazel eyes serious in the dim light of the hallway. They stared at one another, allies at last, and mutually acknowledged that it would be worth the effort. Mulder pulled him into a brief hug, then released him to head into the kitchen. Krycek followed more slowly, turning it all over in his head. For the first time in a very long time, he felt like he just might have a future worth fighting for. He'd finally come home.

 _finis_


End file.
